Another song I wrote, one which I like, despite its simplicity.
A Variation for Prince
The above version is warm pad, with a soft orchestral feel.
The second version is just basic piano.
With the death of Prince today, I dusted off my own variation of one my favorite melodies I re-wrote and adapted from “Gold.” It always resonated with me. Much of what Prince wrote and sang didn’t touch me – but for those songs and melodies which did, his creativity and singular approach to music was indelible.
In another life, I was almost a musician. Many people don’t know that about me – and that’s cool. Just as with words and language, music echoes in my head, inextricably tied to language.
I never finished my version of “Gold,” just as he will never finish his to-do list.
I am posting this portion only because none of us will ever be finished with the creative things that push us to do the things we do. Prince died before he could get all of his list done, but his life was bookmarked with who and what he loved. And he was lucky enough to be rewarded for doing what he loved doing. All of us could be so lucky, even if we drop dead in the middle of a normal day.
Music can’t change the world but, man, does it ever make it better.
PS: “Starfish and Coffee” was my favorite. If only all of us could be so weird and quirky. If you have even one Cynthia Rose in your life, embrace her and you will be embracing Prince and his legacy.
“What’s the use of money if you ain’t gonna break the mold?” Prince
X
A Few Quips to Make Pies
“If you attempt to sell products on Facebook by not telling us what you are selling, it’s tantamount to ringing our doorbell wearing black pants and a white shirt, attempting to hand us pamphlets. Don’t be alarmed if you see the curtains move and hear the TV blaring but no one answers the door.” – x
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Corollary to the above: “And if you do tell us, don’t be alarmed if you see us turn off the lights, hit ‘mute’ on the TV, and no one answers the door.” -x
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“If you want to understand the concept of forever, go through the Drive-Through at the Springdale Whataburger location.” – x
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The common greeting or goodbye isn’t something I’m fond on. In a pinch, I will resign myself to a perfunctory “Happy Birthday” or signature on a card. For me, this sometimes serves as a surprise, as many of my friends and family are so accustomed to my unconventional ways. Being normal sometimes can surprise people, too.
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(Eye-roll alert) I’m not clear on who exactly is going to eat wolf chili… Imagine how loud it is going to be when we get the new “Wolf Chili” canning plant here. I wonder if PETA is going to protest – and if so, will there be ‘howls’ of protest?
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If I owned a convertible dealership in Springdale, I would locate it directly across from the weight scales of the nearest poultry company. You can enjoy owning a convertible – just be sure that you know what you’re getting into.
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As I sit here pitying those with jobs best described as “needing Charmin,” I casually glance to my right and see a fellow human looking at ME with the same look of pity. The “Circle of Strife” continues unabated.
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“It’s easy to be too helpful – as when you are about to drown & someone throws you BOTH ends of the rope.” At least, that’s how the cliché goes. But sometimes, once you’ve seen who is already in the boat, drowning might seem more reasonable.
Johnny Cascone’s Italian
Johnny Cascone’s Italian finally reeled us in Springdale yesterday. We skipped all the known eateries along I-49 and decided to try a new local option. It’s in the old Waffle Hut location. Even though it has been renovated, it is strange to have a place there worthy of attention. Waffle Hut used to get a lot of questionable business, but many dreams of good food died in that building, one plate of eggs and cigarette ash-covered hash browns at a time. Had Johnny Cascone’s not rescued it, the place could have served as a filming location for the Walking Dead without any modification. It takes an intrepid restaurateur to look at the Waffle Hut building and think, “That would be ideal for a place to serve food to other humans.” But they have wonderfully succeeded and I hope they do well in their chosen location.
Dawn tried the chicken parmigiana and I had the chicken carchovi, which is sautéed artichoke hearts in white wine sauce over charbroiled chicken breast and spaghetti. We had the spinach-artichoke dip as an appetizer. The artichokes and strips of pepper in the dip were delicious. I didn’t even care if my plate had chicken on it, as my sights were set on an inhuman portion of artichokes – and they delivered. Our French waiter Genaro made it interesting, as he speaks five languages, including Albanian. I couldn’t help but notice how much the other gentleman reminded me of Ray Romano – maybe I shouldn’t have used my outside voice to mention it.
Here’s a link to the menu: Johnny Cascone’s Menu
It’s not pricey when you compare the entire menu against the competition, especially the seafood portion. For the restaurant’s size, the menu is surprisingly varied.
PS: Order a dipping sauce (or two) from below the appetizer menu to enjoy the complementary rolls served before the meal. Not that most of you would think about it, but Cascone’s is an ideal place to eat vegetarian if you want. For an Italian place, they have a big selection of non-meat menu items.
As always, give it a try yourself, regardless of what you’ve heard or not heard. It’s nice to not drive far to enjoy great food here in Springdale.
Trump and “The Apprentice” Opinions
A quick note on a Saturday morning…
Note: I disliked the TV show “The Apprentice” and avoided watching it. It’s easy to believe that the “Apprentice” detractors currently in the news truly dislike what Trump has to say. Yes, they profited from their relationship during the TV show with Trump. Duh – that’s how it works. They were in a business transaction involving themselves and the producers. It was mutually beneficial. Trump and the TV show profited from the participant’s time and involvement, just as participants did. What strange logic to condemn people because they come forward to voice their concerns. It is strange that Trump would condemn participants for having an opinion, as Trump himself was just an employee of the show. As you may recall, he was fired from “The Apprentice” by NBC. He uses his appearance on the show to bolster his image and exposure, no differently than those currently criticizing his views and fitness to be president.
Many of us have traded our time for dollars. (Some of us call it “work.”) Sometimes, when I’m driving and a poultry truck passes me, loaded with thousands of filthy, dirty turkeys or chickens, I wonder how I participated for so long in the industry. Of course, it always hits me: they paid me for my time. Many of my worst experiences about how NOT to do things happened during my poultry years. (Of course, there were some phenomenal people and managers who cared deeply about doing the right thing in the right way. I have some great memories of some fine people.) However, getting paid when I needed to eat doesn’t negate my ability to voice an opinion, positive or negative. The “Apprentice” group might be capitalizing on Trump’s current controversy. Of course they are. That is how it is supposed to work. Millions of people are working right now for managers and business leaders who aren’t representative of what we aspire to – and certainly not people we would want to be president of the United States. The participants of “The Apprentice” are using what little voice they have to make a point they want to make, while people will listen. Most people will miss the fact that the group tried to not denounce Trump as a person; rather, their criticisms were aimed at his campaign message and platforms. That’s a huge difference and too subtle for most people to ponder.
Trump is missing the fact that he too was an employee for the show, too, and that his opinion isn’t necessarily more valid simply because he was the figurehead.
A List of Thoughts…
Not only do I bite the hand that feeds me, I kick the shins of those who clothe me.
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It is true that you will never read this headline: “Agnostics declared war on South America today.” But it is equally true that you will also not read this headline, either: “Religious group had no comment on the topic.”
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The greatest super-power imaginable is the ability to keep one’s trap closed in the presence of ridiculous.
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They kept telling me not to bite my fingernails. Man, were they angry when I started biting theirs.
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When I get confounded about the crazy stuff others might believe, I turn the TV on and see that golf is still televised. Case closed.
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I’ve decided that I am going to preface every fifth comment I utter with this opener: “As the voice of unreason….
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Is it wrong that each time I drive by the now-defunct Mary Maestri’s restaurant that I giggle?
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“Most people don’t mind getting slapped if they deserve it. If you do it too often or without cause, you had better sleep with your doors locked and with your dog indoors.” –Old Man Chronicles
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A friend recommended that I start wearing a ponytail. He didn’t understand when I replied, “Are you going to be able to sneak up behind the horse with a pair of scissors?”
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“If your mom or your religion tries to teach you to hate a group of people, change churches and don’t argue with your mom. She’s supposed to be rolling her eyes at you.” – Old Man Chronicles
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When people ask me, “X, what have you done today to make the world better?” I now reply, “I don’t ask rhetorical questions.”
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Forget the “ring the bell for excellent service” thing. I want a place that sets a buzzer that when pressed will mimic the sound of agonized pain from a terrible experience. I guarantee that thing will get a lot of usage. (We can use Buffalo Wild Wings or Jose’s as a baseline for sheer unadulterated agony.)
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I get asked, “Why do you enjoy British TV so much?” Despite the great writing and better pacing, the real reason is I like to watch characters living in a world where universal health care is always in the background, waiting.
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Forget drug testing for welfare. Let’s drug test everyone who votes. And anyone wearing black socks.
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“A work ethic is too often misused to make people work when they should be at home getting better. Or looking after their family when they need it. Work has its place at the table but it shouldn’t be the only guest sitting there.” -Old Man Chronicles
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“Ignore what the government takes. You can spend your life watching and worrying or you can spend it down by the river, enjoying life. Government’s going to do what it does, whether you are at the river or not.” -Old Man Chronicles
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Don’t argue with anyone about the difference between a ‘living wage’ and the ‘minimum wage.’ Those making above the former don’t understand the latter.
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Over 2 years later, I still can’t even imagine eating eggs without having to control my gag reflex. It is amazing how one bad experience can change one’s preferences. I still manage to eat one every so often, but only by convincing myself that I’m living in the Matrix and that Neo is telling me everything tastes like chicken, anyway.
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You will go far in your career if you remind yourself from time to time that your manager probably doesn’t understand what the phrase ‘big fish in a small pond’ means. Or that he is the goldfish.
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If a baseball player hits a home run, I vote that we make them run the base once as is traditionally done and then make them do ANOTHER lap around the bases with style, as if they were a specific character that the crowd yells out.
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As for golf, I think that 1 in every 200 balls should be explosive.
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Young people are not the problem. They haven’t had time to mess up the world we are trying to hand them. Anything that’s wrong is on us, not them.
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I’ve noticed that the people most in favor of mandatory military service tend to be the ones I would recommend to be deployed immediately?
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RIP Heritage Inn
RIP Brinkley Heritage Inn…
No sane person wept about the loss of the Brinkley Heritage Inn a couple of weekends ago. It burned on my birthday, which is a cosmic sign of some sort. I didn’t hear of the loss until yesterday. Some people report they witnessed Lucifer’s shadow escaping the billowing columns of smoke and flame. Most weren’t looking up, however, as they were undoubtedly watching the ground closely for whatever might run out of the fires. For every good thing that might have come from Brinkley, the presence of this horrendous reputation-killing hotel confirmed every stereotype for such places. This hotel should have been fire-bombed by the Air Force at least ten years ago. I can’t imagine the firefighters called to contain the blaze really wanted to do anything to stop the burn. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see them throwing additional materials into the flames to ensure nothing rose from the ashes.
True story: you know the place is rough when you hear a gunshot and everyone with a concealed carry permit or even an illegal handgun runs toward the building, hoping to find an excuse to fire back and kill someone inside the hotel. It looked like the first take of a Quentin Tarantino film. (This hotel was one of the few places you get both meth and bedbugs within 5 minutes of entering.)
Even though thousands of people made the grievous mistake of attempting to stay there over the years, the Heritage Inn won’t be remembered as a quiet place of peace. It could have easily been used as a training ground for police needing to learn the urban tactics of the common criminal or by the ATF doing raids. GhostHunters wouldn’t film there – even the unfortunate ghosts residing there were armed and perfecting their own brand of meth. It is true that places like this need to exist, but I was in awe through the years that this particular Hell was allowed to exist directly off the interstate, openly defying Health and Safety laws and being the source of so much human misery.
Among the amenities of this hotel, one could experience the joy and passion of needing to climb through the window to get into your own room when no key was available. Dog lover? Stay near the room dedicated entirely to holding other tenants dogs, left loose and clawing the walls down to the studs. The scent of the area was quite fragrant, too. Several people reported feces in the bathtub when they got a room there. I’m not sure what level of crazy you have to be in to relieve yourself in the bathtub – or how a hotel would fail to notice that particular thing and then fix it. I guess they at least picked up the missing fingers and soaked up the pools of blood before renting the room?
You could sit in the back where the RV area was, watching the police drive by slowly, but never stopping. If you watched closely, you could watch drug deals, domestic abuse, and all the activity you would normally see on “Cops” the TV show, with the exception of the police not actually daring to climb out of their vehicles. It wouldn’t be uncommon to get a flat from a hypodermic needle or hear random screams – and not the pleasure kind either; no, these screams were snatched from the bowels of deepest human misery and amplified on the dirty concrete walls.
To the rear of the property behind the RV area was the abandoned hull of the saddest Wal-Mart to have existed in the history of retail. Not incidentally, that Wal-Mart had the distinction of having the worst bathroom I had ever personally experienced, and that includes even the time I was helping dad with a septic tank and fell in up to my waist. The Wal-Mart closed, leaving the Heritage Inn to remain, holding forlorn watch over the exit from I-40.
To those who accidentally pulled off I-40 from exhaustion, hoping to find a peaceful place to lay their heads, I say “thank you” to all of you who wrote some of the best reviews over the years. Your horror and disgust at some of the things you complained about was amusing. I’m sorry for your suffering of course, but be gladdened that your abject terror was enough to make me laugh. I could never write satire better than those who shared their horror stories disguised as reviews.
Now that the building has burned, if you read reviews online, most of them express joy that the place finally died. Most echo the sentiment that burning was the perfect end to such an imperfect and hideous business.
Here are review excerpts:
“…In summation, if you’re into sketchy sex, killing things, and a grim, hopeless, overall disconcerting vibe, maybe this is totally the place for you…” – “…I got back in my van and kept driving through the storm. I’d rather risk lightning than a stray bullet any day…” – “…Do not stay here. Avoid it like the plague. Because you might actually catch the plague at this dump…” – “…I opened the room door and was startled by the resemblance to decor right out of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I count myself among the survivors of the Heritage Inn….” – “…Go here, if you dare or are writing a horror screenplay…Heritage Inn at Brinkley, Arkansas is alright if you like fighting. And crack deals and homicide…” – “While I am interested in crime scene investigation, I had never dreamed that I would be able to sleep in an actual crime scene…” – “Two of the filthiest prostitutes I’ve ever seen walked passed me and two kids. My little boy literally screamed a little when he looked at them. I watched one of the other long-term tenants kick the rat-trap around as I unloaded my car… We stayed in our room for about 15 minutes, long enough to hear dogs howling in pain and what sounded like a gunshot followed by screams and then muffled crying…” – “…and the lobby attendant looked like he was from a dumpster…”
I know what you are thinking: “X is exaggerating again.” But I’m not. Because of my mom, I spent time near this hotel. The picture on this post is of a Housekeeping cart. It’s an old Wal-Mart shopping cart. You can see the vacuum cleaner, which they rarely used, on the back. The towels in the top are dirty and the ones in the lower basket are ‘clean.’ This picture conveys everything you need to know and allows you to extrapolate the sheer magnitude of crazy that the Heritage Inn conveyed. You can google the pictures and reviews if you want.
I hope that Brinkley decides to allow nothing else to be built upon the ruins of the Heritage Inn. It should be memorialized as a disaster area, left vacant, serving as a warning to travelers and citizens alike.
Old People Love Volunteering The Young For Military Service
Apologies for my little side rant here. For whatever reason, the quantity of old farts pontificating about the need to do something about all the alleged issues young people are causing has been on the uptick lately. The cacophony of dentures clicking in complaint has been deafening.
Why is it that the people most likely to complain about today’s youth being spoiled and needing mandatory military service are also the very same people who rarely served in the military themselves? Or didn’t force their own children, college-bound or not, to serve? I’m generalizing, but most of these self-righteous people also had behaviors that would not have survived military service. My skin crawls when I read some older person crying and pounding the table about great it would be if all young people had to serve in the military.
It is not the young people who have messed up the world- they haven’t had their turn yet. It is us, the generations already making questionable decisions, who currently own the problems of society.
Don’t point at the current young crop of people and demand they be held accountable for what we’ve done wrong. The military is there for anyone who chooses to be a part of it, for reasons of their own, whether economic or self-improvement. Requiring military service won’t necessarily breed a generation of conservatives like you would hope. Military service isn’t a magic pill to require conformity or agreement.
The same tired group of people demanding mandatory military service are also the first to whine if society or government tells them what to do, even for social benefit. It is so strange to watch them object to everything based on their own ‘freedom,’ yet immediately want to volunteer others for duties they haven’t chosen for themselves. Everything government-related is dangerous to them, yet they claim to idolize the virtues that military service would instill.
This isn’t a great post, I realize. And it could easily be misconstrued to make arguments I’m not making.
Best April Fools’ Day Story Ever
A Bill Qualls Baseball Story as told by X
I remember this day as if it were thirteen Thursday ago. It was the perfect late-April day for tomfoolery. That day was one of the best pranks ever perpetrated by any person in the history of the world. April Fools’ Day comes and inevitably evokes memories of this epic day. Had I not been there, I would have never believed such a prank was even possible.
Bill Qualls (top row, first on right) had come by and picked me up to go watch his friends and family play ball. Even though their jerseys all had “A’s” emblazoned on them, judging by their apparent prowess, I would have opted to name them the “B’s” or “C’s.”
Since all the adults were tired from working, they voted that I should be the pitcher for both teams. Because Miller Lite had interfered with a few of the adult’s speed and balance, they had moved me to within 15 feet of home plate. I felt like the Germans must have when the Allied Forces burst into Berlin, facing the barrels of a million rifles.
I decided to play a prank on the batting team, given the volume of ridicule and mockery they were lobbing my way. As I gestured to those playing the field to come up for a conference near the mound, everyone in the infield and outfield ran up to me and I told them my plan. We never imagined it would possibly work. We were like a motley group of idiot savants, embarking on a road trip in which no one knew how to read a map.
Kenny went up to bat and at my signal, I threw the ball as fast as I could. Or I pretended to. Like a game of distract-the-dog at the park, Kenny didn’t realize that I had in fact not thrown the ball at all. Jake, who was the catcher, hit his fist into his glove as if the ball had landed there. Bill yelled “Strike 1” from the side and then laughed. I reared back and threw another pretend fastball. (The batter should have noted that no one had the thrown the first ball back to me. I guess Miller Lite had loosened his reasoning skills enough already.) Kenny swung with all his might, spinning around home plate dizzily. Bill again yelled and shouted “Strike 2.” Kenny then demonstrated his command of every dirty word in the English language and several from Central America. He had already bragged that his batting average was “7,” whatever that meant.
As I threw the ball the third time, Bill was ready and waiting behind the plate and to the left, next to a wooden utility pole holding the electrical wire leading to the box behind the bleachers. As Kenny swung, Bill solidly hit the wooden pole with his own bat, mimicking the echo of a hit at home plate.
Everyone in the outfield starting screaming “Home Run,” or “Fly Ball.” Kenny, who hadn’t hit anything at all, couldn’t tell where the ball was. (It was still in my glove.) His own team hollering “Idiot” was drowned out by ‘my’ team, all of whom were running back and forth, looking upward to the sky, trying to get a bead on the nonexistent ball that was both going over the fence for a home run AND about to be caught for an out against Kenny. The guys looking skyward and prancing around under the invisible baseball now remind me of a ballet company being slightly electrocuted.
Kenny threw his bat and started running the bases. Even as he rounded second base, he didn’t seem to notice that the ball must be in Earth’s orbit at this point, given that so many seconds had passed since he ‘hit’ the ball. He ran even faster, although his idea of a straight line looked more like the stream of water coming out of a hose on a summer afternoon – that is to say, all over the place.
I stood between the pitcher’s mound and home plate, amazed at the spectacle of a grown man being duped into believing that he had hit a home run just by the sound of a bat thumping on a wooden pole.
In what seemed to be two minutes of Kenny running the bases, he rounded home plate. As his foot touched the base, I noticed that Bill had been standing near the utility pole along the fence, holding another baseball in one hand and a lighter glowing red with flame in the other. (This was not part of my plan.) The flame was burning the side of the baseball against his glove. He then quickly hurled the burned baseball as far as he could to right field. John caught it lazily and shouted, “I caught it. My god that thing must have been half a mile in space.”
Kenny stopped a few feet away from home and turned toward John, who was now running toward him, waving the ball he had just ‘caught’ after about two minutes in the air. John started excitedly shouting, “Look, I caught it! It went so high it got burned in the atmosphere.”
Kenny just stared at him, unable to comprehend what was happening. John tossed him the ball as he jogged past me and neared home.
Kenny caught the ball and stared in wonder at the white ball, now covered with black streaks and feeling extremely warm. He sniffed it and said “No way, man!” in a voice resembling both that of Rod Serling from “The Twilight Zone” and Cheech Marin.
We watched in awe as Kenny turned the ball over and over in his hand, his head turned slightly sideways, as if he were holding a chicken with four heads.
In unison, we all burst out in laughter, watching as Kenny admired his “Ball From Outer Space.”
Bill took a bow and smiled.
Clint Eastwood Painting…
I had this Clint Eastwood painted piece as a special request for me. It’s 24X30, much bigger than what this picture appears to indicate. I haven’t hung it yet, but each time I pass it, I solemnly swear I hear Ennio Morricone’s “The Good, Bad, and The Ugly” waft through the air, causing the hair on the nape of my neck to stand on end.
The piece of furniture in the top picture is about 7 feet long, which skews the perspective of size for this painting.
In the above picture, the 16×20 Doc Holiday painting to the left gives a better perspective of size.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 